


The Ultimate Violation Of Self

by Elfbert



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-05
Updated: 2010-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-13 13:00:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfbert/pseuds/Elfbert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was the sort of area Sherlock just didn't work in. He didn't have the patience, the understanding.</p><p>For the Sherlock kinkmeme. Someone wanted Lestrade non-con.</p><p>*Includes discussion and non-graphic description of rape.*</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ultimate Violation Of Self

 

"Sir, I'm Inspector Greg Lestrade, New Scotland Yard. This is Doctor John Watson – he's a police surgeon. I hope you don't mind him sitting with us?"

 

The man shook his head, mutely, as they walked into the room.

 

"Sit down, just…take your time. There's no rush, okay?"

 

The man nodded slowly.

 

Lestrade sat too, reaching into his pocket for his notepad and setting the small tape recorder going, the little microphones sitting on the table in-between them. "It's more important that you try to remember clearly. We've got time."

 

The man nodded again. Then, after a pause, he began talking, hands clasped, gaze fixed on the carpet.

 

"It was…dark. Maybe…maybe I was stupid, I mean, it was dark. Raining. I should've…got a cab, I suppose. But, I didn't…I didn't want to spend the money." He squeezed his eyes shut, as if willing to travel back in time. "And I like…liked, walking."

 

 

 _The city was quiet, the gentle rainfall discouraging all but the most hardy, or those who had no choice. The streets were the domain of the rats, the foxes, those with nowhere else to go. The odd taxi splashed through the puddles, and very occasionally the wan glow from the windows of a night bus would reflect back from the wet Tarmac. Even the river seemed to slow down at night, creeping sluggishly through the middle of town, its depths inky black._

 _He loved it. Loved the solitude, the emptiness. It was the only time he felt like he had a moment to himself, in the middle of a city full of people._

 

 

"I didn't…hear them…him. I think there was just one. I think. It only seemed like one. But he just wouldn't..."

 

The silence stretched, and Watson looked across to Lestrade, trying to gauge the mood. Lestrade was watching the young man, pen poised over paper. His expression was soft, open, and Watson was glad that the young man was being given time to tell his story. This was the sort of area Sherlock just didn't work in. He didn't have the patience, the understanding. He could have read the man's story from his demeanour; his job from his clothes, but he couldn't do this.

 

The man put his hand up to his face, his fingers finding the deep cut Watson knew was hidden by his hair, the scab on his cheekbone, the split in his lip.

 

"He just kept hitting me, I couldn't...couldn't do anything. Couldn't breathe. I tried to shout, but...there was no one to hear me anyway. He just didn't stop, wouldn't. Even when I was on the ground. Kicking…I don't know when…when…" His hands clenched, lips pressed tight, eyes squeezed shut.

 

 

 _The first blow was like a sledgehammer, smashing into the back of his head. It didn't knock him out, but he fell, crying out in surprise. The pain spread down his neck as he clutched at the low wall. Then the person was on him, bearing down, pushing him down to his hands and knees. The punches continued to fall – to beat down on him, sapping his strength, confusing him. He tried to raise his arms, to fight back, to do anything. Then the kicking started. Every time he thought he might be able to escape a foot would catch him, robbing him of strength and breath. His face exploded in pain, his mouth suddenly filled with the rich coppery taste of blood. He tried to shout, but it was lost in his gasps for breath. The ferocity of the attack was shocking._

 _When he awoke he was face down, puddles gathered around and under him. Everything hurt. He listened, wanting to be sure he was alone, that no one was nearby before he dared to move. Finally he raised his head, and as his position shifted it awoke more pain, more injuries. And the sickening realisation that his trousers were undone, roughly pulled down just below his buttocks. He moved faster then, scrambling to cover up, and the pain increased. He looked around and realised he'd been moved, dragged away from the main path and into an area full of bins and rubbish bags. His breathing was far too fast, his heart hammering in his chest as his mind struggled to come to terms with what had happened to him. The burning, aching pain inside him increased as he sat up and he had to turn, resting on skinned knees and grazed palms, to throw up on the floor. His stomach heaved long after there was nothing left to vomit. His eyes watered, and he could see, in the dim light, that blood was dripping from his nose as his body seemed to try and turn inside out. He gasped in breath and quickly they turned to sobs as he cried and cried until his body couldn't carry on and he collapsed back against the wall, still shaking, his breath still coming in ragged gasps._

 

 

"Just take your time. Can you remember anything about him? Did you get an impression of age? What skin colour he had? Or anything else about him – clothes, anything," Lestrade gently pushed.

 

"He…seemed…he wasn't old. The way he moved. I'm not sure. He was about my height, I think. I mean, not far different, I don't think. That's…five foot eleven. He was white, definitely, and…well built. Not fat, not skinny - strong. I saw his forearm, when he…" the man took a shuddering breath. "He had a mask on, a ski mask. And…sports wear. The trousers were that…slippery, you know, shiny. Dark, with stripes. Red, I think the stripes were. The trousers were blue, or black, I don't know."

 

Watson watched as Lestrade made notes.

 

"That's good – good information. Anything else? His top? Did he have a coat or anything?"

 

"Um, a…sweater, jumper. I don't know. It was fabric, not wool, like a tracksuit top. He had it rolled up, to his elbows, that's how I saw…saw he was white."

 

Lestrade nodded slowly, still making notes. Then he took a deep breath, looking up at the man. "And anything else…tattoos, piercings, distinctive teeth…other jewellery?"

 

"I don't…I didn't see. Nothing…"

 

"Okay, okay, don't worry about it. You've given us a lot of useful information. You can take my card – if there's anything else you can call me – landline or mobile. I know it's hard – I understand. But you've done exactly the right thing, coming here, telling us. You can speak to someone else, if you'd like. A counsellor, or a friend – it would help, if you could talk to someone."

 

"You don't – you can't understand. You can't," the man choked in a breath, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

 

Lestrade stayed where he was, the card held outstretched. "I do," he said sincerely.

 

The man looked in Lestrade's eyes, then hesitantly took the card, looking at it, then nodding.

 

"If you want, we can run you back home," Lestrade said. "Save you having to be out. It's getting dark now, y'know?"

 

The man nodded again, standing hesitantly.

 

Watson sat in the back of the car, watching. The man was curled up, shoved into the car seat as if he was trying to merge into it. He looked out of the window, but occasionally he glanced across – a tiny, fleeting glance, at Lestrade.

 

Lestrade pulled up outside one of the new blocks of riverside apartments. Watson looked up at it, thinking how it suited the man they had spent the afternoon with. It screamed style over substance, new money. Watson wondered how the young man would cope. He somehow doubted it was the sort of thing he'd tell his workmates in the city. He wondered if they'd notice a change – if they'd care enough to ask. He hoped so. He knew that understanding friends and the chance to talk about trauma would help more than almost anything else. He'd watched squaddies overcome the most horrific things by being able to trust each other and talk it out. He worried that the culture of the city wouldn't be as accommodating.

 

He watched as the man walked up to the door and disappeared inside. Then he turned to Lestrade. He expected the detective still to be leaning on the car, but Lestrade had walked further and now stood, looking down into the river.

 

"Think you'll get him?" Watson asked.

 

Lestrade didn't move. "Got the forensics. Might get lucky. It depends, I don't know. We'll try."

 

 

 _He finally pulled himself up, standing, shakily. He began walking, as fast as he could. It was barely more than a stumble, hanging onto the wall as he went. The rain poured down, soaking through his jacket and shirt, spreading the bloodstains. Every movement and noise made him jump and cower back into the shadows, his heart beating with fear. The journey seemed to take forever, and he had to stop numerous times, panting for breath or dry heaving as his body and his mind fought to rid him of all traces of the violation._

 _When he reached his flat he checked every room before he finally collapsed into the bathroom, still shaking. He didn't want to, but finally he looked in the mirror. His hair was plastered to his head; long trails of pink blood were running down his face, soaking into his shirt collar. There was a large graze across his left cheekbone and his nose was still bleeding sluggishly. He knew he'd have a pair of black eyes in the morning. He stripped his clothes off and turned the shower onto full blast, the pipes clanking and creaking in the old building. The water was too hot, but he didn't care. He needed to sting, the burn, to take away the other pain. He kept washing, using the whole bar of soap, staying under the water long after it had run cold._

 

 _He'd called into work sick the next day. He couldn't face leaving the flat. It felt as if everyone would know, the minute they saw him. He sat on the sofa, the silence weighing down on him, crushing him. Things like this didn't happen to men like him. Couldn't happen. At some point in the afternoon he'd fallen asleep. When he awoke his flat was in darkness and his heart began to beat wildly. He'd never been afraid of the dark, but now he was terrified about what it could contain._

 _He went back to work two days later. He ignored the taunts, the jokes. He'd managed to respond on autopilot. He'd endured the dressing down from the boss, the lecture on getting into fights, how it looked. He wasn't sure he cared anymore. He felt numb, cold, empty; he felt alone._

 

 

"You've never told anyone." It was more a statement than a question.

 

The time seemed to move as slowly as the river below them.

 

Lestrade's voice was gruffer than usual. Strained. "I hadn't been in London long. New boy at the Yard, getting all the usual grief, all the jokes about not being tough enough for the city. And then…I felt so stupid." Lestrade looked across at Watson. "I couldn't tell them. Couldn't tell anyone."

 

Watson nodded slowly. He knew it wasn't the same – there was still a long way to go, but attitudes had moved on, they had become better, more understanding. But the stigma was still there, no matter how it had faded or changed over the past thirty years.

 

"And there hasn't been a day gone by that I haven't wondered if he didn't do it to someone else, because I couldn't admit it. Wouldn't."

 

Watson reached out and gave Lestrade's shoulder a squeeze. "I understand."

 

Lestrade turned away, dark brown eyes bleak and lonely, mirroring the dark water below. "You can't."

 

~Fin


End file.
